Millbrook
by Things in Ink
Summary: You didn't tell, though. You would never tell. You would endure the pain until one day the line between pain and pleasure snapped. Her pride in you was like a drug that you were first subjected to. That day was the best. That day, she was proud of you.


**A/N: Just a little story about what would happen after you open the doors to the Millbrook Mental Institute. I've been wanting to write something like this for a while, so while I'm stuck with writers block for my other stories, here it is. In other news, we have exams all week until Thursday, so I can write more! Also... my iPod shattered today! That put a damper on my day, just a bit. But it still works, so its cool, right? *Dodges rotten tomatoes* So anyway, some language, but nothing too awful. Read and review!**

You are not in a good mood. Really, how could you be? You protest and scowl. Finally, you reluctantly get in the car and your father begins to drive while your mother weeps. Whiny bitch.

Your sister wears a smirk on her face. She leans in and whispers in your ear. "Finally, we can get the family freak out of the house." Your temper spikes and your nostrils flare. You punch her in the arm, hard. Your older sister cries out, very exaggeratedly.

"Nick!" Your father roars. "Lexi, are you okay?" She lets out a fake whimper then nods. You smile, not minding that you were yelled at. You got off without a punishment. Well, what could they do to you?

You arrive at a large, cold building. You push open the heavy wooden doors and set your face into a hard glare. Your mother talks to a doctor who asks a lot of questions.

"Name?"

"Nick Michael Raker."

"Age and date of birth?"

"Eleven, April sixth, two thousand."

"Reason for enrollment?"

"Anger management issues." You scowl upon hearing the words.

The doctor walks over to you. "Good morning, Nick. I am Doctor Collins but you can call me Geneveive. I will be working with you."

You roll your eyes. "What's so great about it?" You say sarcastically. Geneveive smiles calmly.

"Why don't you go say goodbye to your family, Nick? They'll miss you."

"No, they won't," you grumble but grudgingly go over to them. "Bye Mom, Dad, Lexi." You walk back to Geneveive without waiting for a response.

"Vey good. We're going to start training tomorrow, but today we will do some interviews. If you would follow me, please?"

Geneveive takes you into a room with cheery blue walls and a white carpeted floor. 'Too sunny,' you think to yourself. You both sit down, and Geneveive takes out a tape recorder and clicks it on.

"So, Nick. Tell me about yourself."

She starts the first of hundreds of private sessions. Some, you just talk. Each is recorded and stored in a big wooden box, neatly labeled with your name. You are fine with this. Talking is easy. So is lying.

But before long, the sessions change. Talking turns into training. Traning for something awful.

You know you should tell someone. That's how it is, if someone does something wrong, you tell an adult. That's what your teachers tell you from day one.

You remember the first session. She took you on a boat and you sped to another bigger house. She took you to basement, which you found strange but didn't question. There was a girl there. She was beautiful, with blonde hair and gray eyes. She reminded you of Lexi, which set off a spark in you, burning in your head. You learn how to attack, how to aim, how to kill. It is all for revenge, and she constantly tells you that.

You didn't tell, though. You would never tell. You would endure the pain until one day the line between pain and pleasure snapped. Her pride in you was like a drug that you were first subjected to. That day was the best. That day, she was proud of you. You were proud of yourself. You still remember.

"Today will be the day, my darling. I can feel it." Geneveive had been saying this for a while. You had come to think of her as a second mother. A mother that loved you.

You used to think your mother and father loved you. You would ask to check in with them. Geneveive stopped you. If they loved you, why would they send you away? She was always right.

"All right, Geneveive, whatever makes you happy." You smirk at her, never losing your smart-ass attitude.

She loses her cool, just for a second. You see it, just like she taught you to see. Her hands shake and clench into fists. You dodge her punches, ready for attack. You get her into a headlock and throw a harsh uppercut! She manages to escape and smiles.

"I told you today was the day. Aren't I a good actress? You'll be picking better victims, less trained."

You get out on your 21st birthday with a new identity. From now on, you'll be going by the name of Kyle Davis. Millbrook set you up with training and a job as a secretary with the FBI. It was perfect.

Geneveive calles you one night. "Baby, it's time. Get ready and meet me at," she rattles off the address and you leave work and drive.

She has the victim tied up. She is pretty, maybe five eleven with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes. "A model," says Geneveive, "just like your sister."

You feel the fire in your head, the same burning feeling from the first session. The same feeling that stays with you long after you get your revenge. You don't like the feeling. Some would call it fear.

Fear for the girl. Fear for yourself. Fear for what would happen.

You approach the girl, seeing the fear evident in her wide eyes. "I'm sorry."

You were sorry. Sorry she was the target of your revenge. So, why did you keep doing it?

You clear your mind and pull out a syringe. You inject it skillfully, like you were taught. You punch her across the face, like you were taught. But then, something clicks. She is injured. She is drugged. But she will live.

Unless you kill her.

Why do you do this? Why were you trained to kill? Why did Geneveive teach you?

You stumble back, suddenly terrified. You run. You run until you get to your small apartment. You call three numbers that were familiar but never used.

"Hello, SFPD, how may I help you?"

"I... I know where Geneveive Collins is. The warehouse directly across the street from The Drunk Tank, you know that bar? She has a girl."

"We'll send our best people out. How do you know this, sir?"

You take a breath. "My name is Nick Raker, now known as Kyle Davis. I grew up in Millbrook. She... she tried to turn me into a serial killer. It almost worked, but I lied to her a lot so I wasn't fully changed yet. I was just there in the warehouse and almost killed a beautiful woman. I ran and called. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Mr. Raker, I am going to have some officers bring you down to the station."

"West Heights Apartments, 6A."

That was when things really changed. You see new headlines. All about you or Geneveive. You are asked countless questions. A month later, you begin professional therapy from the SFPD. You are released and you have a feeling that is a thousand times better than when you left Millbrook. You are now Nick, not Kyle.

You are 42 as of today. You have a wife and 2 children, Marcus and Samantha. You love them so much.

But sometimes, you still have nightmares, ones where you remember the person you were lucky enough not to become. But really? You know that it was your choice. Your choice between right or wrong, good or evil, killer or not. You will still wonder. Was the choice I made the right one?


End file.
